


Tough Guts

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lawyer Hux, Legal Drama, M/M, Slow Burn, ao3 is wonky for me rn, kylo however is definitely guilty of murder, not actually a oneshot there will be more chapters, phasma may or may not be guilty of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6542557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hux has little time for anything outside of his demanding job-- as a lawyer in the state's top legal firm, he devotes most if not all of his time to his often challenging criminal defense cases. He doesn't have time to bawl over the shocking, nationally-newsworthy murder of Han Solo, nor does he have time for Kylo Ren, a man straight out of his past, who shows up disheveled one night at his door. As Hux begrudgingly allows him to stay, he realizes all is not as it seems with Ren-- nor with Solo's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tough Guts

**Author's Note:**

> This Hux is an Elan as he is in hollycomb's Children, Wake Up series (which you need to read if you haven't yet, it's amazing).  
> Forgive me for any errors I make concerning the American legal system; I'm no lawyer.

* * *

Chapter One

They blurred the images, of course-- the poor delicate minds of the populace could never be exposed to such horror. What, thought Hux, would those soft souls forever be haunted by the sight of a limp corpse with one single stab wound? Surely they didn't shrink at the sight of blood-- yet the copious splatters of the stuff on the walls were blurred over too. As the obnoxious neon BREAKING NEWS bar spouted more sensational drivel, typical more of a dollar store true-crime novel than a professional newscast, Hux continued to study the images on the screen.

From what he could tell, the lifeless body of Han Solo, the former husband of Leia Organa (and honestly, in Hux's opinion, a lowlife) had been thrown haphazardly down a flight of stairs, arms and legs strewn about at unnatural angles-- at least one of the old man's limbs had to have been broken in the fall-- and the extensive use of Photoshop's blur tool did little to hide the obvious red blotch where some foreign object had rammed itself through Han's chest. The murder weapon hadn't yet been found, he knew, nor had any potential suspects, but reports said that it appeared to be some sort of sharpened pole-- pointed enough to make a clean cut, but round enough to make an obvious, gaping hole-- the source of all the blood that had bubbled out.

Hux glanced at the Rolex on his wrist, and noted the time-- it was 10:17 precisely, and much too late for him to be watching some sensational news station. He had, after all, cases that actually mattered to focus on. The fat manilla folder on his coffee was much more urgent than the over-hyped case of some old celebrity being stabbed.

It was a more engaging one, too: a man on trial for multiple counts of murder had been shot point blank the day before his sentencing, and a juror in the trial-- his client-- was a prime suspect. The juror had been approved by both the prosecution and the defense; no conflicts of interest were found-- his job was to prove beyond reasonable doubt that this juror had no possible motive or means to kill the accused.

He opened the file and flipped through some of the records he'd collected on his client-- Lizbeth Phasma, a local firing instructor, former Navy SEAL. She was a tall, imposing woman-- records said 6'3"-- with short blond hair and a hard-set face, always serious, always calm. On the night of the man's murder, she had been "relaxing" with her new fiancé (her words, not Hux's) and obviously couldn't have shot him to death. The challenges: 

a. The man had been taken out with immense precision, the likes of which someone like Phasma could easily have achieved,

b. her only alibi was one person, and that person happened to be her fiancé, who would have a definite motive to cover for her, and the greatest,

c. the man was found dead just blocks away from her house, propped up grotesquely on a local park bench, blood dripping down his nose and pooling onto the grass.

Now he was sifting through transcripts of texts Phasma had sent to her fiancé about the case. Though a gag rule had technically been in effect, the woman had trusted her then-girlfriend not to rat her out. Hux had prodded and prodded her to provide the transcripts, assuring her a thousand times over that she wouldn't be punished for discussing the case with anyone, and she had relented only tonight,emailing pages and pages of technically-illegal texts to Hux's official business address.

He had printed them all out and stashed then in his folder at the office. Now he picked up the first page and read it over.

_So how's the case lol_

_I mean_

_How is it being there_

_I shouldn't discuss it. If you're interested you can find it on TV or something_

_I m not trying to sway you here I just wanna know some deets_

_It's what you've heard on the news, same man, same victims._

_Pleeeease lol_

_No pressure I'm joking lol:)!!!_

_Google it._

_Okayokay but_

_Liz in ur honest opinion did he do it_

_Which side is swaying your jurorly tingle senses or whatever_

_..._

_Don't tell anyone I said this._

_Ooh here comes the juice_

_;)_

_Innuendos aside u can trust me babe_

_I'm saying guilty as charged. You can tell from the way that man speaks that he did it, he knows it, and he doesn't care._

_Are you scared of him_

_No, I'm furious. Every word that slithers out of that misogynist sack of shit's lips makes me want to knock his lights out._

This was worrying-- Phasma expressing thoughts of violence towards the accused didn't help her case. And, knowing the nature of his colleagues in the prosecution, Hux doubted they would be above rooting up this transcript for themselves if he chose not to enter it as evidence, which looked at this point to be likely. He picked up the next page of the transcript and began to inspect it.

_What do you think his punishment should be_

The transcript indicated that Phasma had waited a long while to respond.

_Fuck I don't know_

_Honestly y I'd just fucking electric chair that shit_

_You can do that still in Texas or somewhere_

_I think its Texas_

_Like u know what_

_If I could get at him I'd just_

_I'd just straight up shoot thatfuck_

_Point fucken blank_

_No last meal from captain motherficking lizbeyt phasma_

_Fuck the criminal justice system we all know this guys a monster_

It took a minute for Hux to realize that his mouth was hanging open in shock. Slowly, he regained his composure, but the sense of shock remained. That Lizbeth Phasma, a woman with all the emotiveness of a stone wall (in his experience, at least) would lose her composure in such a way-- it was shocking. He could see why his client had been so hesitant to provide the transcripts. God-- he had to keep this away from the prosecution...

Barely thinking of his actions, he stood and began to pace along the well-worn circle he always paced-- a path around the edge of his couch and adjoining loveseat, and directly in front of his television. Scratching rather aggressively at his palms as he did, Hux tried to process this new detail of the case.

Had Phasma been drunk when she'd sent these texts? Her words were so scrambled; it was likely. If worst came to worst, he could claim-- but of course a drunk woman would be bound to make rash decisions, like shooting a man right in the head-- no, what was he saying, these were sent a whole night before the murder occurred, but-- were they? If Phasma had secretly changed the date...

His raving thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. According to his watch, it was roughly 10:35; who could be knocking at this hour? Warily, Hux crept to the door, fearing it may be some vengeful family member of one of the supposed victims of some past client out for revenge, as had happened before. Slowly, he made a small crack in the blinds with his index finger and peered through at the man standing on his doorstep.

He was tall, well-built, and fidgeted nervously as he waited for the door to open. A duffel bag lay next to him on the porch-- if Hux had to guess, he would say that this bag contained all of this man's belongings, judging by the disheveled state of his clothes. His nervous posturing and apparent lack of a weapon suggested that he wasn't here to harm Hux, but caution was still of the essence here. He would turn on the porch light, see how the man reacted-- and it would give him a good look at this mysterious solicitor's face. His fingers searched along the wall (his eyes never leaving the man) and flipped the porch light switch-- 

and there was a face Hux never expected to see again.

He grabbed at the doorknob, unlocked it roughly, and flung the door open. It whooshed past the man, flying within an inch of his long nose, and he jumped back just in time to avoid facial injury. His clothes were indeed disheveled-- a massive tattered scarf piled around his neck, his oversized black sweater frayed and thin at the bottom, his gray jeans stained with large blotches of some black substance. There was that same look on his face, that look of dumbfounded shock and sadness that he always wore. 

He smiled thinly, weakly. "Elan," he said. "Remember me?"

"Kylo Ren," replied Hux. 

Kylo grinned. It didn't reach his eyes.

"What do you want?"

His grin turning to a wince of sorts, Kylo thought a bit before answering. "Look, can I just-- crash here, a while? I know it's been along time, but I'll only be a night or two." He paused again, brown eyes staring into Hux's in an almost pleading look of desperation. "Elan, I'll stay out of your hair, I promise."

Hux sighed to himself and looked at the sorry sight in front of him, his lips hard-set, eyes revealing nothing. Kylo bit his lip, barely holding the other man's gaze. Even now, Hux couldn't deny feeling the smallest twinge of sympathy for this walking bundle of torn rags. 

"Hux. Not Elan," he said, turning around and beginning to walk inside his living room.

"So I can--" he gestured to the doorway.

"I'd've thought that was implied."

The barest hint of a smile, a true, grateful beam, was evident in Kylo's features as he followed Hux into his tall, thin brownstone apartment. He closed the door quietly behind him, looking around almost in awe at the well-furnished room: he hadn't expected Hux to be so clearly well-off. The furniture he owned was all spotless, all organized at perfect, strict right angles, and all clearly expensive. 

"If you don't mind," he asked, "can I take a shower?" 

Hux, who was again flipping worriedly through Phasma's text transcripts, mumbled something under his breath that Kylo took to be "sure". He looked around for the bathroom and saw a likely-looking door at the end of the living room, just left of the stairwell. He walked to it, opened it, and sure enough, the bathroom. It was stark and white, spotless as everything in Hux's apartment was. Kylo doubted there was a speck of dust in the entire place.

He closed the door and opened the blank plastic shower curtain. Carefully, so as not to strain his shoulder, he lifted his scarf away from his head, pulled off his shirt, pants, boxers. The gauze over his ribs had soaked through again, but just barely. If this kept up, he might have to stitch it up-- did Hux have a needle and thread? He doubted, man probably had his clothes fixed up by a tailor, but perhaps he could give him some cash and ask him to pick one up.

Still careful not to aggravate his wounds, Kylo stepped into the shower, grabbed the handle. Cranked it on. Felt the water blast from the showerhead onto his raised face, washing away the concealer he had daubed over his tender left eye. Peachy water ran down his legs, body, face and pooled on the floor. He roughly spun the glass temperature knob again-- water beating down on him, cleaning his body, his horrible, miserable skin-- he rubbed the blood away from his cut lip. Turned the knob as far as it could go. 

The water was scalding now, stinging his eyes something brutal, washing his hot tears down his cheeks, gone as soon as they were cried. Nobody could know-- not Hux, not anyone. Nobody. 

Kylo, finally allowing himself to shut the torturous stream of water out of his eyes, sank, sobbing, to the shower floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Triple contractions FTW  
> All reviews appreciated! :)


End file.
